Chapter Text
After Draco’s accident (read: attempted murder) with Buckbeak a week ago, his position in the Slytherin team was reduced to the benches until his broken arm was fully recovered. Draco tried to, in vain, convince everyone that yes, for Merlin’s sake, he’s alright! His father, though, had made a fuss of it, demanding for the beast to be executed, Hagrid to be fired and his son to be well cared for. Draco immediately noticed that kicking up a fuss and going with his father’s plans meant losing the game he had trained so much for and immediately denied ever being hurt by the hippogriff.
He couldn’t care less about that flying beast, really! Let that half-giant marry it, if both parties consented. Draco had nothing to do with it. The only thing that mattered was beating Potter on the snitch! It was his first game, for Merlin’s sake! Lucius knew how much Draco wanted to be part of the team!
Lucius, fuming, had ordered the staff to prevent Draco from flying until his injuries were fully healed.
Injuries? Those hardly counted as injuries. In fact, Draco was sure that, if he had been injured by anyone it was by his own father, as Draco had never rolled his eyes so hard in his entire life. It was a wonder they were still functionable.
After Lucius kicked a fuss, it was Draco’s time to kick one, as that order meant no quidditch for a month or two. He insisted on being allowed to participate in the games and, for his dismay, that was what he got.
As a commentator.
McGonagall, the hag, must be oh!, so proud of herself, judging by the smile she swore to herself she could hide well. She sat by Draco’s side on the commentator’s bench to “aid” him on his first game. Aid , what aid! The witch was there to prevent him from blabbering his mouth, obviously.
Still, he must confess. The view up here is spectacular, isn’t it? He could see the whole field at an angle normal spectators could not. Since he couldn’t have things his way this time, at least he got the best end of the stick, right?
Draco grimaced when the Gryffindor team entered. Cheers exploded everywhere, someone must’ve used a sound amplifying spell for the team to appear more popular than it actually was. Or maybe Gryffindors were naturally born with the vocal strings of a double bass. No. They were too poor for that. Maybe they just shoved a microphone up their… His grimace intensified and his thoughts were clouded when his eyes met Harry Potter, getting ready on his broom. Oliver Wood said something to him, clasped his shoulder, Potter laughed and Draco was sure his expression could not get uglier.
Minerva McGonagall, seeing Draco had no interest in introducing the team and instead sulked in his corner, took the job for herself, “Good day, students. I imagine we are all excited for today’s match.”
She introduced the Gryffindor players, one by one, calling their names and positions, with the players posing and greeting the audience when cheered on. Draco scoffed when Harry looked up after his name was called, searching for his friends to wave like an idiot. What an idiot. What a moron. What a fool that boy was. When the Slytherin team arrived, McGonagall cleared her thoat, signaling Draco to do the same.
“Really?” Draco said, not minding the fact the whole audience could hear him, never one to match the concept of timid. McGonagall crossed her arms, making the boy roll his eyes. Perhaps the teacher and his father made a secret bet on who could make Draco blind first. “For Salazar’s boots, don’t look at me like that. Fine. For the better team – what? Am I not here to share my thoughts? –, firstly, we have the seeker, Terence Higgs. Though, if it wasn’t for that damned chicken, I’d be on the grounds instead. Next…”
Hearing the git’s voice, Harry looked up in surprise and then glanced around, confused, as if he was hearing voices. Draco noticed, of course, and had to comment on it after the introductions were finished, “What, did I surprise you, Potter? Try not to make so many mistakes this time, as I’ll be pointing out each of them. It's time to show the world the foolishness of the Moron Who-”
“Mr Malfoy, I’ll be muting your megaphone.”
“I’m just doing my job, Professor.”
Harry, the bastard, dared to laugh. How insolent. Draco saw his mouth moving, probably answering Draco’s tease as if he could hear him from this distance. He must be making fun of Malfoy for not being able to play, the bastard he was.
The players got into position and flew up, waiting for the countdown for the balls to be released. The game started and, immediately the quaffle began to circulate the field while the bludgers relentlessly tried to hit the players off their brooms.
“Magnificent!” Draco clapped, “Gryffindor lost the quaffle! Ten points for Slytherin! It’s the first time I see Graham actually doing something! As a fellow teammate, I congratulate Graham Montague for getting over his phobia of being useful. Maybe now your father will come back home, even he would wish to congratulate you on that goal.”
McGonagall shook her head and groaned. At least she could not accuse him of taking sides.
“What the hell, Bletchley? That quaffle flew in slow motion and still managed to get in. Any slower and it’d be flying backwards! Ugh, ten for Gryffindor!”
“Flint, get a grip! Do you hug your mother with those arms?!”
“Wake up, Bletchley. Do you miss your beauty sleep? Yeah, clearly. Ten points for Gryffindor.
“The Gryffindor girl with the awful haircut, what was her name? Anyways, she managed to lose the quaffle. Again. Do you need a quick explanation on how this game works?”
“For Merlin’s boots, Malfoy! Treat Miss Bell with respect!”
“So you agree her hair looks awful? Oh, don’t look at me, Bell. Why are you surprised? There’s no way no one never told you those bangs look hideous!”
“Kate Bell’s haircut… choice has nothing to do with the game. Focus, now.”
“Focus? How can I focus when I see her hair in my boggarts?” Both McGonagall and Draco threw themselves at the floor to escape the angry quaffle thrown in their direction, used as a bludger. “Merlin, calm down, girl. Use that enthusiasm to hit a hoop for once.”
Ms. Bell flicked him off (she didn’t need to, really, her hair was enough offense for his eyes), and flew off.
“Spinnet has the quaffle! Bell gets – and back to Spinnet again. Hell, Derrick, hit that bludger for once! What? The crowd is saying that Spinnet was hit by a jinx? Nope , no way, didn’t see it. Those must be her natural eyebrows. Wait…” Draco jumped out of his seat, megaphone in hand. Professor McGonagall, who had already given up on correcting Malfoy’s speech and seemed to have accepted her fate, also jumped out of surprise. Draco’s voice got a pitch higher out of emotion, almost letting a squeak out, “HIGGS, YOU BETTER CATCH THAT SNITCH NOW, YOU HEAR ME? I’LL END YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY IF YOU-”
After a short struggle for his megaphone’s rights with McGonagall, Draco continued, “Oh, who cares about that quaffle? Potter and Higgs are side to side after the golden snitch! Just throw him out of his broom already! What? What are you laughing at, stupid Potter? You won’t laugh so much once Slytherin beats your-”
Oh.
No.
No. No. Oh, no.
Draco fell to his seat, devastated. Potter lifted his hand, showing the shiny, golden snitch that tried to escape from his greasy hands. The crowd cheered and Potter, stupid Potter, looked right into the commentator’s cabin, full smile on his face. This must be a joke.
McGonagall nudged him, making Draco reliantly speak back into the megaphone, “Unfortunately, Gryffindor wins,” the crowd cheered even louder. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake! Stop with all the noise, first time watching a game or what?! Anyways, this is not the result of the Gryffindor’s talents, no, but the result of the Slytherin players' utter incompetence! Listen here, Potter, if it was ME on that field, I wouldn’t be losing. You hear me? You hear me, Potter? NEXT TIME, when I’m able to play, I will absolute DESTROY you, I will make you cry for your d-”
The rest of his insults are not heard by the crowd, as the professor finally silences his megaphone. He continues throwing his tantrum, of course, leaning out of the cabin windows to shout every insult he could think of from the top of his lungs.
Harry Potter, the sole reason his throat hurts later, just smiles. Laughs a bit.
He even dares to wave at Draco.
“Well,” Pansy Parkinson glances at the group of older Slytherins that passed through with whispered curses under their breaths, “I believe that means you’re not allowed into the team anymore?”
“They’ll come around it, they are just angry at their loss.”
“You managed to anger every single player on the team. They are being very vocal about how you are not welcomed anymore.”
“Well, maybe I’m the one who doesn't want to play on the same team as those idiots!” He made sure to speak a bit louder, to get his point across. Bletchley scoffed. To act so mightily after playing so badly, Draco almost laughed. “I can open an entire team if I want to, who cares about them.”
As Bletchley’s bulldog face would do unimaginable horrors for his eyes, Draco decided to look away. A mistake, really, and a scoff leaves his lips when no one other than Harry Potter meets his eyes. Or, better, when their eyes meet.
“He’s been looking at you a lot lately”, Blaise Zabini notices. Ever so useful.
Draco looks away with a roll of his eyes. Was Potter also in the secret bet?
“The bastard must be feeling so proud of himself”, Draco mumbles. “Their little friendship slum managed to get that flying beast to stay alive, my arm’s broken and he’s suddenly doing well in potions. Besides that joke of a match.”
Blaise chuckles, dry, more focused on his lunch than whatever was going on with Potter’s life. “He thinks you’re a funny lad.”
Pansy hums in agreement, and so does Goyle, who unfortunately decides to open his mouth, “Draco is plenty funny. There’s no way the Gryffindors didn’t laugh when the hipo-thing jumped on you!”
Draco’s mouth formed a perfect circle, but before he could tell Goyle to jump out of a tower, Blaise continued, “Not like that. Not in a… Making fun out of Draco, but that Draco's comments during the match were fun. Witty, I dare say.”
“The entire school seems to think so”, Pansy agrees.
“Tell that to the hair girl,” he shivers, remembering all the books thrown at him that he had to evade. “She doesn’t seem very appreciative of my genuine and caring advice to chop that squirrel off.”
“Mr. Malfoy”, they all turn to see Professor McGonagall, pale on the face, approaching with a sour expression and stiffen steps.
Draco tries to think of everything he did in the last twenty-four hours. Was this about leaving Longbottom hanging out of the school’s flag? Pardon him, he had to destress after that awful game. And he thought that stud would know how to keep his mouth shut. “Can I help you, professor?”
There’s hesitance in her stare and, after a long pause, she mutters her intentions, as if what she was about to say pained the depths of her soul, “Mr. Malfoy, it seems your… personal commentaries during the last quidditch match made quite the… impression on your fellow students.”
“It doesn’t seems to be the case, Professor, since Ms. Bell appeared in front of me with that horrendous mess still attached to her forehead.”
“What I mean to say, Mr. Malfoy, is that a considerable amount of students came to me to ask for your continued assistance during the games. An unfortunately large amount and more than I can possibly handle without an infinite stock of headache-healing potions by my side”, a sigh left her lips. “I’ll be expecting to hear your answer soon, Mr. Malfoy.”
If his people call, Draco shall attend.
And yes , his final decision had to do with the way he was thrown out by the Slytherin team, as the next game being Hufflepuff against Slytherin meant he could torment their ears for an entire hour or more. Both of the teams. It ended up being three hours of roasts, frequent lost bludgers towards the commentator’s cabin and Bletchley having to be seen out of the game for a possible stroke after all the comments made about his missing father and his terrible genetics.
Even so, Hufflepuff still managed to lose. Draco sighed. Those phonies continued to disappoint him, time and time again. Not that he actually expected anything from those folks.
After that game and Draco signing a deal with McGonagall that tied himself to that cabin for a trial period of six months – which surprised Malfoy, since he thought the woman would have him as a commentator as brief as possible, but it seemed she had come to terms he would end being killed by one of the players, meaning there was no need for a change in the common contract –, Draco’s life have had a few… Weird occurrences.
People greeting him in the hallways, asking for his opinion about the best broom or what he thought of the Harpies this season – an utter disappointment for the nation, what else could they ever achieve? –, and, besides the sudden burst of popularity through the entire school, a few isolated incidents happened continuously.
One of them included Kate Bell, now without that horrendous thing covering her face, coming up to him to thank for the hair advice. Bangs really aren’t for me , she had said, but all my friends were scared of telling me so. Thank you, Malfoy, I’ll ask for advice on my next haircut!
Draco was horrified.
And not only to see that Bell continued to be horrendous even without those bangs, no. He was horrified that people now thought that he was… nice? To think they could approach him that easy? Not a chance.
Still, no matter his thoughts or his words, he relished in the attention.
For six months, he could actually get used to being the center of everyone’s attention. He got even more attention than the players themselves, so it was just another opportunity to take the spotlight out of Potter, for once.
Six months, that’d be all.
Or not.
You see, the worst thing about being wrongly perceived was that, once or twice, a fly or a flea would think that they could attach themselves or land on his shoulders for a while; think that his ears were meant for their foolish words.
When he is paired with no other than Harry Potter – who suspiciously got better in potions and was now good enough to be paired with Malfoy – during Snape’s class, Potter thought of himself as one of those fleas, thinking that any word he said would actually mean anything to Draco.
More exactly, he thought his smiles would mean anything to Draco. Those smiles that had gotten so frequent whenever they bumped into each other or whenever they exchanged stares (a common practice between rivals), that was what Potter did when he approached his table: with a smile, he sat down.
Draco was frozen. Horrified. Scared for his life. “No, stop that,” his voice sounded breathy, shaken in terror. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing… What? I’m just sitting down, Malfoy. Professor Snape said that-”
“You are not just sitting down, Scarhead. You are… Doing that thing with your face. Every single time you see me. Stop that. Now.”
“Um… Smiling?”
“Yes, that atrocious act. I’m warning you to quit it.”
Potter dared to chuckle, “Look, we are already third-years, I just thought we could… I don’t know, stop with all that. Get along for once.”
“What made you even think that was a possibility?!”
“You convinced everyone to not kill Buckbeak, for starters. Can’t say I’m not thankful for that. Hagrid is too, um, he wants to apologize for that. She’s not a bad girl, he said. She was just scared and all.”
“A girl? I got my arm broken by a female chicken?” Forget about that, Draco. There were worse problems at your door. Harry Potter was… Thankful? To him? And thought he was nice? The damned giant also? “This cannot be happening. I refuse to believe your lies, Potter.”
“I mean, you insisted that you were not hurt by the attack, so she was allowed to be kept here. But your arm is still healing, isn't it?”
He frowned in concern, looking towards Draco’s still plastered limb and, seeing the genuine worry displayed in his eyes, Draco Malfoy made a decision.
“POTTER!” Draco stood up. “Never, and I mean NEVER, say those words to me again.”
He had a new goal from now on. Not a lot different from his previous goal, but new nonetheless. Leaning over the table, his breath could be felt by Potter from the proximity of their faces. A strategic, menacing approach on Draco’s part that worked perfectly as intended, judging by Potter’s reddened face, of course from anger.
“And you better watch out in the field. I’ll be narrating every misstep, every fall, every mistake you make on top of that broom.”
“Mr. Malfoy, minus five points for Slytherin!”
“I’ll humiliate you until you graduate, Potter, if you even last that long.”
“Minus ten! Sit down, Mr. Malfoy!”
Yes, that was right.
Draco would not step down from his position as commentator. Not if it meant an easy way to publicly humiliate Harry Potter, The Chosen Seeker, The One who Caught the Snitch or whatever the streets were calling him nowadays. Draco would make him afraid of stepping on the quidditch field for his entire life! Tormenting Harry Potter through his commentaries, that was his goal.
A new ambition was fully born.